Page 18 of Mistletoe Minx

“The Dashford Christmas Day menu hasn’t changed much over time,” Dalton admitted. “But I did remove eels. Not only are they disgusting, Cook threatened to leave me for Devonshire’s household if they remained. It seemed there were several…incidents.”

Frances giggled, the sound so decidedly not proper, it stopped him short. Once again, she was surprising him and he was already thoroughly out of sorts, damn it.

After inhaling deeply for some sort of composure, Dalton asked: “How do you feel about donning an apron? I usually pour drinks for the staff.”

His wife nodded, reaching for the starched white linen apron draped over a chair. “I’m happy to assist. A half glass? Full to the brim?”

He smiled ruefully. “My banker has conniptions, but full to the brim. It is Christmas.”

For the next half hour Dalton served a never-ending stream of people; had he thought Tansley House had just fifty staff? Clearly they’d multiplied like mice. But the entire time, Frances stood beside him smiling and pouring and conversing with everyone from scullery maid to butler, and he couldn’t help but admire her warmth and poise. Frances might be entirely too beautiful for his peace of mind, but she truly was an excellent duchess. A credit to him.

When they were all seated, Dalton rang the supper bell for silence. “As it’s nearing noon, I shall endeavor to be brief. 1814 has been a year of great change, both for England and this household, with the welcome addition of my duchess⁠—”

Cheers and thunderous applause sounded until he gestured for quiet.

“Today begins Christmastide,” Dalton continued. “A time of good cheer and miracles, new beginnings, reward for toil and⁠—”

“Making babies!” bellowed Cook, raising her brandy glass then hiccupping, and the dining room exploded in laughter.

Dalton ground his teeth. The staff might be too busy drinking, but he’d not missed Frances’ tiny flinch. She knew. He knew. Every bloody person in England knew the Dashford dukedom needed an heir for the ancient title, multiple estates, vast fortune and nearly a thousand livelihoods. That was as inescapable as a runaway cart. But did it really need to be brought up in every damned conversation? Thank God going to Kent would offer a short respite, where fucking was about pleasure, not securing lines.

“Anyway,” he said when the laughter finally died down, “thank you all for your loyal, industrious service. Her Grace and I wish you a very Merry Christmas. Enjoy the meal.”

After escorting Frances to her seat, Dalton returned to the other end of the enormous dining table. Thankfully, very soon, he would be on his way to erotic Utopia—the only cure for his ever-growing and certainly insane obsession with his own wife.

Finally.

Winter carriage travel in a hired vehicle was proof that purgatory did exist.

Pressing her lips together so she didn’t yowl like an angry cat, Frances stared out the window as the last remnants of gloomy gray afternoon was devoured by darkness. To ensure Dashford was long gone, she’d allowed a full half hour between him leaving Tansley House and her own escape at two o’clock, but it was an excruciating twenty miles to Warenne Hall, just south of Dartford in Kent. Twenty miles of jolting, shuddering, swaying travel on thin squabs that her backside might never recover from.

She winced, moving restlessly to try to ease the bruised, cramped feeling. However, this situation could certainly be much worse: the roads were actually passable rather than a treacherous mud hole or ice sheet, a small carriage with two footmen and an experienced driver was faster and nimbler than most, and they carried surprisingly powerful lanterns to light the way. Lady Warenne had also generously provided a lap rug and hot brick, so the temperature was bearable. Yet right now, after what must be about three hours of travel, she would give anything to just be still. Especially when her nerves were scraped raw at what she was about to do.

Frances twisted her fingers together. Following Dashford to Kent to be his surprise mistress was probably the most foolish plan in the history of the world. Even with the help of practice phalluses, how could a young, inexperienced duchess pretend, even for a few minutes, that she was a wild wanton who knew how to pleasure a man in the bedchamber? Surely Dashford would know her for a fraud at once and send her away in disgust.

The wretched thoughts pounded her mind until she whimpered and pulled the lap rug higher. It was either that, or unfasten the small, canvas-covered frame that acted as a window in good weather and beg to be taken home. It was strange beyond measure to want something so very badly, yet be so stomach-churningly anxious at the same time.

Stop being a twit. Only bold women get what they want.

When the carriage noticeably slowed, Frances once again peered out into the pitch-black night and her breath caught. Just ahead stood a grand stone entrance with large wooden gates and flaming torches staked into the ground, lighting the entire driveway up to an impressive country seat.

A polite tap sounded at the carriage door, before it opened to reveal a very burly ginger-haired man in Warenne livery, holding a notebook.

“Evenin’ ma’am. Your invitation?”

“Oh!” said Frances, clumsily snatching up her reticule and rummaging for the precious cream parchment. Then she handed it over. “Here you go.”

The man bowed. “Welcome to Warenne Hall, Mrs. Jones. Outside the manor you’ll be met by your personal maid who will assist you for the coming days. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you,” said Frances breathlessly. “And Merry Christmas.”

“Same to you, ma’am.”

Moments later they sped down the well-kept driveway, and far too soon for her sanity, the carriage pulled up in front of the sprawling three-storied, red brick dwelling. Several other carriages were unloading people and trunks, and countless servants bustled about carrying belongings, ushering guests, handing steaming tankards to drivers, and feeding oats to weary horses.

Oh God. Was Dashford here? Would he see her? Had he been so impatient for pleasure he’d already found a lover to bed?

On the verge of losing her mind, Frances nearly shrieked when the carriage door abruptly opened and a plump uniformed maid poked her head in. “Evening, Mrs. Jones! Lady W told me to watch out for this carriage. I’m Glory, your maid for the party. You need anything, your hair done, dressing, extra toys, supper for two, just ask me. Don’t worry about your trunk neither, we’ll take that inside, but you must wear this veil until we reach the parlor.”